


but there's hope out the window (so that's where we'll go)

by chloebaeprice



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chloebaeprice/pseuds/chloebaeprice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe that's why she does the things she does, because no one has ever fully stopped her. And that kind of freedom is dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but there's hope out the window (so that's where we'll go)

_we've turned our hands to guns, trade in our thumbs for ammunition_

_i must forewarn you, of my disorder, or my condition_

_'cause when the sun sets, it upsets what's left of my invested interest_

_interested in putting my fingers to my head_

_the solution is, i see a whole room of these mutant kids_

_fused at the wrist, i simply tell them they should shoot at this_

_simply suggest my chest and this confused music_

_it's obviously best for them to turn their guns to a fist_

—twenty one pilots, twenty one pilots

 

 

 

 

Inhaling and exhaling smoke, she wonders if it would be better to die quickly or slowly. Dying before your mind can catch up, or dying in agony, each breath painful and sharp, but so very poignant and a reminder of what you're leaving behind. Would the pain be worth it? Would it feel like an exquisite release or more like torture?

  
The chilling wind is absorbed into her filmy skin and settles as an ache in her bones.

 

 

 

 

She won't let herself give in, if only so she can say she wasn't a coward that didn't even try.  
  
(Sometimes she doesn't even believe in herself, let alone other people.)

 

 

 

 

Nobody has ever directly, in no uncertain terms, told her "no". Maybe that's why she does the things she does, because no one has ever fully stopped her. And that kind of freedom is dangerous.

 

 

 

 

She's had a high pain tolerance for as long as she can remember. (And what does that say about her?)

 

 

 

 

When she opens the bathroom door all she sees are burn marks and why is there blood oh god, don't look Elizabeth, please don't look, look away baby, so much blood—

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, when her Mum's sane enough to remember that she has a daughter, she can talk about the kind of meaningless things that no one else has the patience to listen to, Tony included. It's a release of sorts, to be able to talk to someone who is nothing more than a sounding board, knowing you will receive no judgement, no commenting of any kind. Then Mum snaps out it, her eyes clear, her expression straightens up; she gets up off the couch and leaves. And the cycle repeats the next day.

She wonders if she'll ever get tired of it. Probably not, since she's just desperate enough that she'll take anything at this point.

 

 

 

 

She wants dark wings to grow from her back so she can jump off any building and never fall down. No, she'll soar into the sky until she's able to look down and see nothing of the world below her.

 

 

 

 

All she feels is numb when she drags the knife across the thin, delicate flesh and bone of her wrist. Blood seeps and drips on her skin.

Her eyes feel tired. Maybe if she closes them she can leave for good. Her breaths flutter and burn in her chest like fire and smoke. Does that make her blood gasoline? She's always liked metaphors. It's easy to get lost in them. One of these days she'll write them herself.

 

 

 

 

For once, no one told her she couldn't be silent. All it took was her dying for it to finally happen.

 

 


End file.
